He shot into my vitals the arrows of his quiver;
The arrow cannot make it flee; slingstones, for it, are turned to chaff.
For the arrows of the Almighty are in me; my spirit drinks their poison; the terrors of God are arrayed against me.
Their quiver is like an open tomb; all of them are mighty warriors.
He has bent his bow like an enemy, with his right hand set like a foe; he has killed all those in whom we took pride in the tent of daughter Zion; he has poured out his fury like fire.
I will heap disasters upon them, spend my arrows against them: